I wonder will the realtor tell another couple not to worry
this is your first house, as if it is a cup of coffee, last night's homework, or
a pair of pants you'd wear as you knelt in the muddy garden,
dutifully replaced, easily forgotten.
I wonder will the new owners wish its walls back to white, like when we first came here.
I wonder will they re-do the attic, create a third level,
fourth if you count what's below ground.
I wonder will they gather round a table, twist the caps off wine,
drink to thanks and giving, drink to hope.
I wonder will they hear it echo too big, too empty
or will the floors & the steps & the thresholds finally beneath the weight of little feet sigh,
as we inhale & exhale & clasp each other's hands
as we walk away, as we go back the way we came.
